Fourth Wall
by stringertheory
Summary: <html><head></head>Prompt: Artifact - Alfred Hitchcock's camera.  Don't shoot home movies of someone you'd really rather didn't die horribly with it.</html>
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Fourth Wall  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG  
><strong>SpoilersTimeline:** None, post-Season 2  
><strong>Prompt: Artifact:<strong> Alfred Hitchcock's camera. (Don't shoot home movies of someone you'd really rather didn't die horribly with it.)

Prompt from Comment-Fic Party post in the LJ community for Warehouse 13.

**-FRIDAY-**

The Friday night camp-out had been in the works for weeks. With the heat of the summer finally over and the weather deciding to cooperate, the three friends had decided that this weekend would be the one.

Permissions were obtained, gear was gathered, and the perfect spot located for their overnight escape. They were dropped off near the site just a few hours before sundown, with the plan that they would be picked up the next day by lunchtime. As the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, throwing long shadows where it managed to peek through the towering trees, tents were constructed. By the time night fell, a fire crackled in the center of the campground and the boys gathered around to share what they had gone through so much trouble to procure and enjoy.

From inside one of the boys' bags appeared the reason for their woodland gathering: two six-packs of beer. With somewhat guilty grins and more bravado than any of them truly felt, each took a can and popped the top. One made a toast and then all three took their first taste.

Unnoticed, in the shadows just beyond the reach of the fire's glow, there was a reflection of light, and then it was gone.

**-SATURDAY-**

The King County morgue was as dull and lifeless as any Pete and Myka had ever been in. The M.E., however, was quite the character.

Mark Pridgen was in his early forties and he glided around the autopsy room like a ray of proverbial sunshine. His desk stuck out like a neon sign amid the concrete-gray blandness of the surroundings, adorned as it was by a lamp with a bright orange shade; a large, flowering vine of some kind that was slowly taking over the front of the desk; and an oversize, black-and-white plush cat that was perched atop the computer monitor. Pridgen himself was wearing an ivy green shirt under his examiner's coat, and a paisley ascot was knotted at his throat. He led the agents over to the wall of lockers and opened three at waist height.

"These three boys came in this morning, burnt to a crisp," he said as he pulled out the trays. "Tyler Bates, age 15." He pointed to the tray on the right. "Joey Larsen, also 15, and Owen Whitby, 16," he advised, tapping the last tray, which he was standing next to. "Time of death for all three is sometime between midnight and two a.m. this morning."

Pete and Myka walked closer to get a better look at the victims. All three had suffered severe burns over their entire bodies.

"Any idea what happened?" Pete asked.

"Other than that they were burned to death? No." Pridgen replied.

"You said they were camping -" Myka began.

"And there was a fire, yes," Pridgen cut in, "but when Mr. Larsen's father arrived it had burned itself out, still completely contained in the rather clever pit the boys constructed. In fact, there was no sign of any fire outside of the fire-pit."

"Nothing?" Myka asked in surprise.

Pridgen shook his head. "No burn marks, no scorch marks, no lighter fluid, no matches, no hellfire and brimstone - nada. Though the tox-screens showed that all three had ingested alcohol not long before they died."

"Beer?"

"The beer cans at the scene kind of gave it away."

"Where were they found?" asked Myka.

"In their respective tents, on top of their sleeping bags." Pridgen caught the agents' looks. "The bags, the tents, and everything in them were in pristine condition. The only evidence of fire was what rubbed off the victims and on to the sleeping bags when the bodies were removed from the scene. But the bags weren't burned at all, not even singed."

"Could the bodies have been burned somewhere else and then placed in the tents?"

"I highly doubt it," Pridgen said with a shake of his head.

"Why?" Pete asked.

"As you can see, they were badly burned - third degree over ninety percent of the body. But the clothes were untouched."

"Just like the bags?"

"Just like the bags." Pridgen affirmed. "And what's more, there was no indication that the bodies had been moved. The only footprints found at the campsite were from the three victims and Mr. Larsen. There were no tire tracks leading into or out of the area other than Mr. Larsen's, and the bodies didn't show any of the post-burn trauma that would have resulted from them being moved."

Pete stepped a bit closer to Myka to whisper, "Maybe they didn't burn from the outside in."

"Well, they weren't burned from the inside out, if that's what you're thinking," Pridgen said, with a sly grin on his face. "And that still wouldn't explain how nothing else was burned."

The duo failed to hide their concern quickly enough to escape the M.E.'s eye. Pridgen flapped his hand at them and began closing up the lockers.

"You aren't fooling me, loves; I used to do this in NYC. Moved to Washington for the quiet, the clean air, the lack of crazy. But I know strange when I see it." He closed the last locker and turned to face them, folding his arms over his chest and looking graver than they had seen him. "I'm not going to ask why you're here or how you know about this or if you're really Secret Service. I don't care. And I don't care how this happened, so long as you two keep it from happening again."

Myka replied with a solemn nod. "Thanks for your help."

"My pleasure," Pridgen answered, his grim-faced expression at odds with his words.

As they left the room, Pete glanced over his shoulder. Pridgen was standing with his back to them, staring at the wall of lockers, his arms crossed over his chest.

-00000-

The lunch crowd had mostly dispersed, so the cafe they stopped at upon arriving in Bellevue was relatively empty. While Pete stopped outside to make a couple of phone calls, Myka purchased a local newspaper and headed inside. She had found a seat, ordered them drinks, and was halfway through the paper when Pete joined her, wrapping up a call as he approached.

"Okay, thanks." Flipping his phone shut, Pete lowered himself into the chair opposite Myka and nodded at the paper. "Anything suspicious sounding in there?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure this city councilman is embezzling funds to support his luxury car habit, but I don't see anything that might be related to the deaths." She spared a smile for the waitress who brought out their drinks before turning back to her perusal of the headlines.

Pete grabbed the proffered straws from the waitress and unwrapped them, plunking one in Myka's drink and the other in his own. "Then can I see the sports section?" he asked.

"What did the victims' parents have to say?" Myka asked. Without looking up from the paper, she handed Pete the folded section she had set aside for him and then grabbed her drink.

"Not much," Pete replied. "The Whitbys didn't answer their phone and Mr. Larsen thought I was a reporter and used some very colorful language before he hung up on me."

"And the Bates'?"

"That's who I just got off the phone with. Mrs. Bates was a bit emotional -"

"Understandable."

"- But Mr. Bates was forthcoming enough. Tyler, Joey, and Owen apparently spent a lot of time together, including a stint in detention last week for picking on their classmate, Adam Jacobs."

"What did they do?"

"Well, Mr. Bates didn't know or wouldn't say, but I got the impression that this wasn't their first offense."

"Schoolyard bullies. Sounds like motive to me." Myka scanned the last page of the paper before folding it neatly and setting it aside to pick up one of the menus the waitress had left behind. "Lunch and then we visit the Jacobs'?"

"Deal."

-00000-

Twenty four-oh-nine was a tidy little bungalow tucked under spruce and hemlock trees at the end of a neighborhood street lined with tidy little houses.

Pete parked along the curb. As he and Myka walked toward the front door, they took stock of the surroundings. The lawn was recently mowed, perhaps even from that morning, and the small flower beds that were tucked up to the house had obviously been tended with care. They could hear a dog barking and caught glimpses of golden fur behind the fence that surrounded the backyard.

"It's like the picture of a perfect childhood," Myka said.

Pete grimaced. "Judge a book by its cover..."

Myka rang the doorbell and the two waited on the porch while footsteps approached from inside the house. The woman who answered the door had an air of harried grace about her. She was of average height, with sea-foam green eyes and medium brown hair that she had pulled back in a messy bun. She stared at the strangers on her porch with an inquisitive and open gaze.

"May I help you?"

"Mrs. Jacobs?" Myka questioned.

The woman nodded. "Yes?"

"My name is Agent Bering; this is Agent Lattimer." Both held up their badges. "Would you mind if we came in? We need to speak with you and your son."

"About what?" Mrs. Jacobs asked. Her eyes were suddenly wary, and she had shifted her body so that she could slam the door shut more quickly should she decide that the situation called for it. In response, Myka softened her tone and shifted her weight toward the door.

"Three of Adam's classmates were found dead this morning," she answered. "It was our understanding that Adam had been involved in a fight with them last week; we would just like to ask him some questions."

Mrs. Jacobs stared at them for a moment, shock and worry and a deep weariness flashing across her face. Then she sighed, stepped back, and waved the agents into her home. "Come in."

They followed her through the cozy living room and into the small kitchen, where she offered them coffee from a maker that had seen better days. The other appliances in the room looked equally as old, but were spotlessly clean. There was faded wallpaper on the walls that had at one time borne a bright pattern of pink, white, and green stripes. A tiny window over the sink looked out on the backyard, as did a sliding glass door. The room was bright and warm and smelled of coffee. Mrs. Jacobs - who insisted they call her Gretchen - handed Myka and Pete mugs, directed them to the cream and sugar on the counter, and excused herself to retrieve her son.

When she returned, she was followed by not one but two boys, both of whom had her eyes, though the youngest had hair that was almost black.

"Adam, Aaron - this is Agent Bering and Agent Lattimer."

The boys mumbled their greetings, the elder with an expression that was simultaneously wary and sullen, the younger with shyness and curiosity. Gretchen took the smaller boy's shoulders and squatted down slightly to look him in the eyes.

"Adam and I are going to talk to the Agents, okay? I want you to go outside and play with Max."

Aaron looked for a moment as though he would protest, his eyes darting from his brother's face to the badge and gun he just could see peeking out from under Myka's coat. Then he looked back at his mother and nodded.

"Yes ma'am."

Once the younger boy was safely out in the yard - and therefore out of hearing range - Gretchen directed everyone to the table in front of the sliding glass doors. Pete took the seat opposite the doors, with Myka to his right. Gretchen settled in the chair to his left, Adam across from him. Contrary to what Myka had expected from a fifteen year old boy, Adam did not slump down in his chair, but instead sat up straight, his hands clasped together on the table.

"Owen Whitby, Tyler Bates, and Joey Larsen were found dead this morning at their campsite outside of town," she stated, choosing to be blunt and hoping to use Adam's reaction to gauge what he knew. She registered shock, uncertainty, and a small glimmer of vindication on Adam's face before he pulled back up his mask of disinterest.

"What happened?" Gretchen asked in a small voice.

"They were burned to death," Pete answered. "We don't yet know how."

Myka looked back at Adam. "According to what we heard, something happened between Owen, Tyler, Joey, and you last week, and they got detention because of it."

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Adam exclaimed.

"We aren't saying you did," advised Pete, "but we need to know what happened."

Adam leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and brow furrowed, clearly reticent to relate any details. "They were pushing me around, trying to start a fight. A teacher saw it and stopped them. That's it."

"That is _not _it," Gretchen cut in. She put a hand on her son's shoulder and looked intently from Pete to Myka and back again. "This isn't the first time this has happened. Those boys have gotten in trouble numerous times this year for bullying, and at least three of those times were them ganging up on Adam."

"It isn't a big deal, mom," Adam grumbled.

Myka, sensing an argument brewing, headed it off with another question. "Adam, where were you last night between midnight and two a.m.?"

Adam gaped slightly at her, incredulous. "What - you don't think I killed those morons, do you?"

"Adam, answer Agent Bering's question." Gretchen's tone warned against argument.

"I was here, at home."

"By yourself?" Pete asked.

Adam nodded and his mother answered. "I've been working the night shift recently - I'm an RN at the hospital - and Aaron was at a sleepover with friends down the street. Adam's stayed here before without me, mostly watching his brother while I'm at work."

"You didn't leave, you didn't go anywhere?" Myka pushed.

"_No_," Adam replied vehemently. "I didn't go anywhere, I didn't do anything, and I didn't kill anyone." He pushed away from the table and stood up. "I didn't kill them, but I won't pretend I'm sorry they're dead."

Grabbing a bag off the end of the kitchen counter, he stalked out the door and into the backyard. Aaron looked up from where he was wrestling with Max as Adam settled down under a tree, pulled out an old camera and began fiddling with it. Inside the kitchen there was a charged silence broken by Gretchen rising to refill her coffee. She returned to the table and sat down with a heavy sigh, staring out the door at her sons.

"You try your best," she said, "but you can't always be there. Sometimes things fall through the cracks." She turned back to Pete and Myka. "Adam and Aaron's father died almost two years ago. It was a car accident. Connor swerved to avoid a car that was pulling out from a blind driveway and lost control. He went over the side of the road and into a shallow ravine." She sipped her coffee and stared at the table. "Adam took it really hard. He blamed the other driver, even though it wasn't his fault, and he blamed his dad for leaving. He was always a boisterous kid, but after the accident, he sort of... _withdrew_. He grew quiet and spent a lot of time alone in his room. It's been the same ever since." She smiled a bit. "He always finds time for Aaron, though. He's a good big brother."

"Mrs. Jacobs - Gretchen," Myka corrected herself at Gretchen's look, "has Adam ever snuck away from home before, ever gone missing and you didn't know where he was?"

"I'd like to say no," she replied, "but I spend so much time at work, I don't know. Right now I'm at home during the day, so I'm here when the boys get in from school and we can have dinner together and do homework and all that, but when I work days, they're here by themselves until I get home. It's possible that Adam could go somewhere and just not tell me, and I wouldn't know." She looked pained at the thought.

"Would he leave Aaron alone?" Pete asked.

"Definitely not. I don't think he would go anywhere that he wouldn't tell me about, but he definitely wouldn't leave Aaron by himself to do it." Gretchen rubbed a hand over her forehead. "If he did go somewhere, he would do it while Aaron was with Mrs. Blansky."

"Mrs. Blansky?" Myka questioned.

"She lives next door, in oh-seven? She used to babysit Adam and Aaron when they were younger. She's starting to get up there in years, but she watches after Aaron whenever Adam and I are both at work."

"Where does Adam work?"

"At the Cross Country Theatre. It's a small local place where they have plays and show old movies. Forrest Quinn runs it. He's a great guy. Adam used to go there with his dad all the time, and when Forrest found out Adam was looking for a part-time job, he immediately hired him."

"What hours does Adam work?" asked Myka.

"It varies," Gretchen answered. "If it's during the week, he'll work from after school until seven. On the weekends, he usually works from three to nine or ten, depending on if they're doing a show or a movie. And sometimes he'll go in a little earlier or stay a little later to work on side projects."

"Side projects?"

Gretchen smiled proudly. "Adam is really interested in film: filmmaking and editing, mostly. Forrest lets Adam record a lot of the theatre's performances and use the equipment at the theatre to cut together films of the productions for the cast and crew. Adam got so good at it that Forrest starting selling copies and giving Adam part of the profit."

"Do you know what Adam's work schedule has been for the last few days?"

"I don't remember exactly," Gretchen said, getting up from her chair and walking to the fridge. She pulled a sheet of paper out from under a magnet in the shape of a large tomato and brought it back to the table. She handed it to Myka. "But that's a copy of the schedule, so Adam's times should be on it."

"Thanks," said Pete. He and Myka rose from the table. "And thanks for the coffee."

"You're welcome. I hope you find out what happened to those boys."

"So do we."

-00000-

Pete pulled out the Farnsworth the minute they were back in the rental. A few seconds later, Artie appeared on the tiny screen.

"What have you found?" he asked.

"Not much," Pete replied. "We just spoke with a suspect and his mom - Adam and Gretchen Jacobs - but there didn't seem to be anything abnormal going on there. Just a kid that's been through a tough time and doesn't really mind that there are a few less bullies in the world."

"Have you found anything on your end?" Myka asked.

"Nothing. The Jacobs boy is still the best suspect. We didn't get any hits from searches on the campsite, the city, the victims, their families, or their school."

"_Au contraire, mon capitan._" Claudia appeared over Artie's shoulder and waved. "Hey, guys." She held up a flyer featuring a large picture of a porcelain doll decked out in the finest of Victorian fashion. "The Rosalie Whyel Museum of Doll Art: over 1200 dolls and accessories on display for your squicking pleasure. If there's anything creepy going on in that town, I bet it started there."

"Dolls?" Pete replied uncertainly.

"_Dude_," Claudia answered, "do you have any idea what kind of freaky stuff has happened with dolls?"

"Marie Laveau's voodoo dolls," offered Myka.

"Empress Maria Fyodorovna's _matryoshka_ dolls," Artie added.

"That Teddy Ruxpin in Chicago in '87," Claudia said, poking Artie in the shoulder. They both shuddered.

"Technically not a doll, but definitely in the same category," Artie said. He pointed at Pete and Myka. "Check out the museum. We'll keep working on it from here." He looked over his shoulder at Claudia. "Good job," he said gruffly.

"Of course it was a good job," she countered. "You're just miffed that the Claudster found something you missed. Again."

Artie swung around in his chair to face his youngest agent. "I have not missed an-"

The rest of the argument was cut of by Pete hastily snapping the Farnsworth shut.

"Doll museum?" Myka asked.

"If we must."

"Joy." Myka started the car and they pulled away from the curb.

-00000-

The sidewalk crowd at The Brewery was pretty thin, but even if it had been busy, Adam would have been able to instantly pick out the girl sitting alone at one of the tables.

Rachel Emerson was his first crush, a brunette in the grade above him who had captured his heart on his first day of high school when she helped him pick up the books Owen Whitby had just knocked out of his arms. From then on, Adam had admired her from afar, never getting any closer to her than passing smiles in the hallways. He had always wanted to talk to her, but had never had the nerve, something Owen and his friends had given Adam hell for. But they were dead now, he reminded himself, and he choked down both the sick feeling that thought gave him and the fear he felt over what he was about to do. He clutched the camera around his neck a bit tighter and approached Rachel's table.

"Rachel?" he asked, bolstered by the fact that he had managed to keep his voice from squeaking.

She looked up from the book she was reading, mild surprise on her face as she took in the cause of her interruption. "Oh, hi - Adam, right?"

"Yeah."

"What's up?"

"I know we don't know each other very well, but I was wondering if you would do me a favor." Adam braced himself for disappointment, but mentally crossed his fingers just in case.

"Okay," Rachel said, drawing out the word uncertainly. "What is it?"

"I've been messing around with some filming techniques," Adam began, holding up his camera as evidence, "and I need to get a few minutes of footage, something simple without a lot going on in it, to try a new process on. It makes the film look like an old movie would, like it's been aged." He took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you would let me film you."

"Right now?" Rachel asked.

Adam nodded. "Yeah. Like I said, I only need three or four minutes of footage and what you're doing right now would be perfect." He stuttered a bit. "I mean - that is - studying. You just sitting there studying would be perfect. For the footage I need."

"I don't know," Rachel said, glancing down at her books and papers skeptically. "It seems a bit boring to me."

"No, no. It's great. See, I haven't tried the technique before, so I don't want to start out with anything that's really busy, or that has a lot of motion in it. I'll just get a few minutes of you studying, with just a little bit of camera movement, and it'll be perfect."

Rachel studied him for a moment, biting on her bottom lip and tapping a pencil against the table. Then she smiled.

"Alright, I'll do it - on one condition."

Adam waited with bated breath.

"I get to see it when you're finished."

"Done," he agreed, a grin spreading across his face as they shook hands on it.

"Okay, Mr. Filmmaker: film away."

-00000-

"NEVER AGAIN. D'you hear me? _No more dolls_." Pete looked uncharacteristically haggard, even on the Farnsworth's tiny screen. After his proclamation, he rubbed a hand over his face and stared into the distance with a dazed expression. From their end, Artie and Claudia threw puzzled looks at Myka, who rubbed her partner's back in sympathy.

"Turns out Pete has... _issues_ with dolls."

"Who doesn't?" Claudia muttered.

"Was there anything at the museum?" asked Artie.

"Nothing. There was nothing there but _dolls_," Pete answered. He was still staring slightly to the left of the Farnsworth, eyes glazed.

"There wasn't anything there, Artie. It was a dead-end."

Artie and Claudia quickly glanced at each other from the corner's of their eyes.

"Nothing?" Artie asked for clarity.

"Nope," Myka affirmed.

"Told you so," Artie said. With a clap of his hands, he swiveled in his chair to face Claudia. "Two weeks' worth of inventory. No complaints."

"Don't start, old man," Claudia returned, clearly miffed.

Myka stared at them, amused. "Were you two betting on us finding something at the doll museum?"

"No," they responded - a bit too quickly - snapping around to face the Farnsworth, where a tiny Myka raised an eyebrow at them.

"Maybe," Claudia amended.

"A little," said Artie.

"Their little eyes follow you everywhere you go. And those _tiny hands_."

Everyone looked at Pete, who was obviously still rattled.

"Oookay," Myka said. "I'm going to find Pete some cookies and we're going to call it a night. Call you in the morning."

"'Night," Artie and Claudia chimed.

Snapping the Farnsworth shut and placing it back in her coat pocket, Myka grabbed Pete's arm and hauled him to his feet.

"C'mon, you. Let's go find some cookies."

"Chocolate chip?" Pete asked hopefully.

"_Double_ chocolate chip," Myka promised.

-00000-

Adam loved the Cross Country Theatre, the history and texture and feel of the place. There were creaky floorboards in the lobby and old-timey vanity mirrors in the dressing rooms backstage, and the basement was full of props and costumes and bric-a-brac from the decades that the theatre had been operational. The place smelled of popcorn and old make-up and time.

Adam loved everything about the theatre, but his favorite part was the projector room.

The auditorium below may have been where he saw many of the films that got him interested in filmmaking, but it was in the projector room that he learned about filmmaking. When Mr. Quinn had hired Adam, all his editing equipment had been boxed up in his attic. Mr. Quinn had worked in film for many years, and had directed and edited a handful of independent films before settling in Bellevue. After taking over the theatre and putting all his energy into its renovation and continued success, his filmmaking days had been put aside. Adam's interest - and subtle tenacity - had inspired Mr. Quinn to dig out the equipment and teach Adam everything he knew.

The projector room - being large and mostly empty - had became the equipment's new home, and Adam's second one. He spent as much time as he could there, learning how to use the equipment and, once he was comfortable with it, experimenting with different processes and techniques. Though he became quite adept at the basics, the nature of his work limited what he could do. There were only so many acceptable ways to piece together stage performances.

Now that he had a camera of his own, he would be able to learn so much more.

Adam checked his watch - seven o'clock on the dot - and started the projector. The opening credits of _Rear Window_ began flashing across the screen downstairs. After a quick look over the machine to make sure everything was in perfect order, he walked to the workstation set against the other wall, sat down, and pulled a few rolls of film out of his bag. With the projector humming cheerily behind him, Adam set to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**-SUNDAY-**

The sound of the Farnsworth going off pulled Myka from sleep and out of bed. She stumbled across the small motel room to the chipped desk where she had left the Farnsworth the night before. Pushing hair out of her eyes and failing to suppress a yawn, she answered the call. A very awake, very serious Artie appeared on her screen.

"Myka."

"Mornin', Artie."

He paused, taking in her disheveled appearance. "Did I - did I wake you?"

"No, no," Myka assured him. "I was just about to get up anyway."

"Good. We have another victim."

"Who? Where?" Suddenly alert, Myka was digging through the desk drawer for a pen and paper even as she threw questions Artie's way.

"Rachel Emerson. A seventeen-year-old high school student from Bellevue. Found dead early this morning by her parents when they returned home from a late-night movie. Her body is with the King County M.E. I want you and Pete to go check it out."

Myka nodded. "Have you found anything new on your end?"

"Nothing." Artie sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. "Whatever artifact is causing this, it's being particularly difficult to locate."

"I'll grab Pete and head over to the M.E.'s office. We'll call you and let you know what we find out."

"And I'm going to grab Claudia and see if we can figure out what we've missed."

"Talk to you soon."

Myka closed the Farnsworth and placed it back on the table before walking over to the privacy door separating her room from Pete's. She knocked on the door and called Pete's name. When he didn't answer, she pounded on the door and yelled a bit louder. There was still no response from the other side, so she opened the door and strode into the room.

Pete was lying on his stomach, snoring slightly, dead to the world. There was half-eaten cookie on the night-stand and Myka could see the television remote peeking out from under Pete's pillow. With a shake of her head, she stepped over to the room's solitary window and threw open the curtains. Early morning light streamed into the room and directly into the face of her partner, who shifted a little in his sleep, but otherwise remained undisturbed. Myka walked over to the bed.

"Pete."

There was nary a twitch from the bed's occupant. Myka put a hand on Pete's shoulder and gave him a shake.

"_Pete_."

He mumbled and nestled further into his pillow, but did not awaken. Myka stared down at him, ever so slightly exasperated. Then, with a wicked grin, she licked her index finger, leaned over, and gave her sleeping counterpart a sneak Wet Willy. With a yelp, Pete jerked awake, tossing himself over the side of the bed out of sight in the process. Groaning, he pulled himself up to his knees and peered over the mattress at Myka, who was watching him with a bland expression on her face.

"We have another victim. King County M.E. Leaving in 20." She turned back toward the doorway.

"What - who - what just..." Pete spluttered. He lifted a hand to his ear. "Aww, that is _gross_, Myka."

She threw a grin at him over her shoulder. "Be ready in 20." The door clicked shut behind her.

-00000-

M.E. Pridgen looked even grimmer than he had been when they left him the day before. He slid Rachel Emerson's body out from her locker for them to inspect. She looked like she was sleeping.

"There are no signs of trauma to the victim's body," Pridgen pointed out. "No bruising, no stab wounds, no gunshot wounds, no ligature marks, not even needle marks - nothing to indicate that she was in any way attacked." He stepped over to one of the nearby work tables and opened the file laying there. "I did a full autopsy and the only thing I can tell you is that she appears to have been poisoned."

Myka looked up from where she was still examining the body. "Appears?"

"'Appears' is the best I can do, I'm afraid," Pridgen answered. "Her internal organs don't show any signs of poisoning, from either long or short term exposure, and the toxicology reports turned up clean."

"So what makes you think she was poisoned?" Pete asked.

"It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Had she ingested anything prior to her death?"

"Coffee," Pridgen said.

"Poisoned coffee?" Pete pulled the file across the table and skimmed over the reports. "Sounds like a movie." He glanced up to find Myka and Pridgen staring at him. "What?"

"Anything else?" Myka asked Pridgen. "Anything strange or unusual?"

Pridgen shook his head. "The only thing strange about this is that I have no idea why she's dead."

-00000-

Artie looked less than pleased when they relayed their findings to him.

"He doesn't know how she died?"

"No," Myka affirmed. "Pridgen said he couldn't find anything to explain what killed her."

"I looked over the records, Artie. There was nothing there. It's like someone just turned her off."

"Something isn't right here, something is definitely not right..." Artie backed away from the Farnsworth, brow furrowed. Muttering to himself, he walked out of view. In his place, Claudia slid into frame.

"Meanwhile, the only connection I was able to make between the first three victims and our latest one is their school." She turned the Farnsworth so Myka and Pete could see her computer screen. With a few clicks, she pulled up what appeared to be a high school's homepage. "Newport High. Home of the Knights. We contacted the school -"

"_I_ contacted -" Artie corrected as he reappeared in the background.

"_Artie_ contacted the school and the vice principal, Kay Sorenson, is going to meet you there at three."

"Perfect. Thanks, Claudia."

-00000-

For some reason that Adam found difficult to fathom, his little brother was an early riser.

Typically, Aaron would be up and about shortly after sunrise, and he usually dragged Adam with him. As Adam got older and more fond of sleeping in, the early mornings became fewer and farther between. With school, work, and household duties taking up so much of his time, sleep was precious. But he would still pull himself out of bed at the crack of dawn at least one weekend out of the month to spend some time with Aaron.

This particular morning had been spent in the backyard, fooling around with Max and playing catch. Aaron was hoping to try out for baseball, and Adam had been teaching him how to field balls and throw with precision. From what he had seen so far, Adam had no doubt Aaron would make the team.

They had been at it for a good two hours when Adam finally called for a break.

"Okay, buddy. I gotta stop for a while. My arm is killing me." He made his way over to the back deck and sat on the steps, rolling his shoulder to ease the soreness.

With a shrug, Aaron tossed his glove down near a pile of the baseballs they had been using. Then he focused his attention on Max, who had been waiting patiently for his turn to play. Aaron started to run and Max gave chase. Then Aaron turned the tables and chased the dog. While they played tag, Adam dug his camera out from his bag and started filming them. He knew he had to be at work soon, but the situation was too perfect; it was just what he needed to finish his project.

"Whatcha doin'?"

Aaron and Max's circuit of the yard had brought them around near the deck, and Aaron had stopped to watch his brother watching him.

"Nothing," Adam replied. Checking his watch, he turned off the camera and began packing up.

"Why are you always filming me?" Aaron asked.

"It's a surprise," Adam said with a grin and a wink.

Aaron lit up. "For my birthday?"

"Maybe." Adam ruffled his hair. Shouldering his bag and reaching down to give Max a quick head rub, Adam headed around the house to where his bike was parked. "Tell mom I left for work."

"When will you be back?"

"Around ten," Adam said, maneuvering his bike through the gate and into the front yard. He shut the gate behind him and stood on his tiptoes to peer over the fence. "See you tonight," he told Aaron.

"Bye!" Aaron threw a wave over his shoulder as he darted back across the yard, Max at his heels.

Smiling, Adam walked his bike to the road.

-00000-

Newport High was clean, modern, and very empty.

Vice Principal Sorenson met them at the front door. She was in her mid-fifties, petite and fit. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut very short and the dark brown eyes that watched them from behind wire-framed glasses were sharp. Myka had no doubt that she kept the students in line with very little effort.

"Thank you so much for meeting us, Mrs. Sorenson," Myka said as they approached the entrance. The handshake she received was firm, and she could tell that she was being sized up.

"It's Ms. Sorenson," she corrected.

"Ms. Sorenson, we appreciate you taking time out from your weekend to talk with us."

Ms. Sorenson turned her gaze on Pete, who froze momentarily like a deer in the headlights. "It isn't a problem." She turned and unlocked the door, pushing it open and holding it so for Pete and Myka to enter. Closing the door behind her, she set off down the hallway at a brisk pace, Pete and Myka hurrying to follow. "You wanted to check a few lockers, is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am," Pete answered.

"Might I inquire as to why?"

"We're investigating the recent deaths of these students, and we wanted to see if there was anything in their lockers that could lead us to a suspect."

Ms. Sorenson came to a sudden halt outside an office. "I'll just grab the master key from my desk and we'll get those open for you. Excuse me." She stepped inside, leaving Myka and Pete in the hall.

"She reminds me way too much of Mrs. Fletcher," Pete muttered.

"Mrs. Fletcher?" Myka asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Fourth grade. She was a terror. Sent me to detention more times in one semester than I'd been sent to in the four years before that."

"Sounds to me like you were just a troublemaker," Myka said. "Why am I not surprised?"

"That's the thing!" Pete countered. "I never actually did anything in Mrs. Fletcher's class. I never got the opportunity. She always caught me right before I put my plans into motion. It was like she was psychic."

They both jumped slightly as the office door opened and Mrs. Sorenson strode out.

"I have the key," she advised. "Shall we?"

"Lead the way," Myka said, motioning for her to go ahead.

Their search of Owen's and Tyler's lockers didn't reveal anything more than the typical lack of hygiene found in most high school boys, as well as a lot of incomplete homework. Joey's locker concealed a half empty pack of cigarettes, which Ms. Sorenson confiscated, her expression a combination of resignation and sadness. Other than that contraband, it, too, was devoid of clues. Rachel's locker was in another wing of the school, and they headed off in that direction in silence.

"Schools on the weekends give me the heebes." Pete shook himself.

"Too quiet for you?" Myka asked.

"Too quiet, too still, too... _alien_."

"It is kind of creepy," Myka agreed, glancing up and down the vacant hall.

"It's downright unnatural for a high school to be like this."

"I agree, Agent Lattimer," Ms. Sorenson said. She stopped midway down the hall and turned to stare at him, something approaching a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth though her eyes were very serious. "It is most unnatural." She opened a locker on the right side of the hall. "This was Ms. Emerson's."

Donning his purple gloves, Pete gingerly dug through the contents of the locker. There was a small mirror held to the inside of the door by a magnet. Surrounding it were pictures of Rachel and her friends. The locker itself contained a few notebooks, a small stack of textbooks, an overdue library book, and not much else.

"Did you know the victims?" Myka asked Ms. Sorenson.

She half nodded. "I knew the three boys from their many altercations with other students. They weren't terrible boys, they just needed guidance." She sighed. "Ms. Emerson was in the grade above them, so they didn't have much direct interaction. I'm not sure if they knew each other outside of school. Ms. Emerson was well-known to the staff here. She was a star student and a prominent member of our jazz band."

"What about Adam Jacobs?"

"Adam?" Ms. Sorenson asked, a puzzled expression on her face. "Is Adam dead, too?"

"No, no - he's fine," Myka assured her. "But it was our understanding that a lot of the 'altercations' Joey, Owen, and Tyler had were with Adam."

"They did tend to pick on Adam more than anyone else," Ms. Sorenson confirmed. "I'm not sure why. Maybe because he was quiet, maybe because he had picked on them when they were in grade school; you never know with these things."

"What about Rachel? Did Adam know her?"

"Not that I know of," advised Ms. Sorenson. "Though I do remember that at least one of the incidents between Adam and the three boys involved Ms. Emerson."

"How so?"

"Adam had a bit of a crush on Rachel and they found out. They teased him mercilessly about it."

"Myka?"

She stepped over to Pete and the open locker. "Yeah?"

"I found this in one of Rachel's notebooks." Pete was holding up a flyer advertising a coffee shop.

"A coffee shop?"

"The last thing Rachel drank was..."

"Coffee."

-00000-

"A coffee shop?" Claudia asked. Behind her, Artie kept appearing and disappearing from frame.

"The M.E. found coffee in Rachel's stomach," Myka explained. "If she got it from this shop, we're hoping someone there will remember seeing her.

"And if someone _did_poison her, they would have had to get close." Pete shrugged. "Maybe they were noticed."

"Well... when are you going?" Claudia asked. Somewhere out of sight came the sound of a loud crash, followed by Artie's muffled voice advising that he was okay.

"It isn't open this afternoon," Myka advised. "They reopen in the morning at 6:30. We're going to swing by th- Artie, what are you _doing_?"

Artie, who had just reappeared behind Claudia shoulder and was frantically typing at the computer keyboard, glanced up sharply.

"I'm coming to you."

"What? Artie why-"

"Something very strange is going on," he replied. "I don't - I haven't been able to pinpoint the problem and at this point I think I need to be there, on the ground, to figure this thing out." He turned to place a hand on Claudia's shoulder. "Claudia is going to stay here and be our techno-guide." He paused to turn her chair slightly so he could look her in the eyes. "And to hold down the fort and not burn down the Warehouse while I'm away."

Claudia brushed his hand off her shoulder and swiveled back around. "I got this, old man. Go."

"Artie -" Myka began.

Artie leaned in close to the Farnsworth's screen. "I'll be there tomorrow morning. Don't wait around for me." Then the screen went black.

Pete and Myka looked at each other.

"Dinner?" Myka asked.

"I think we deserve something nice," Pete agreed.

"Me, too."


	3. Chapter 3

**-MONDAY-**

Adam's alarm clock went off at precisely 6:15 AM.

He managed to pull himself out of bed after only two hits of the snooze button, a personal record. Usually it took him at least five before he was capable of doing much more than falling back asleep. With a muttered oath, he dragged himself to his feet and gazed around blearily, briefly considering crawling back under the covers. But he had important plans for that afternoon, plans that required him to bike to school - and biking to school meant an earlier-than-usual start.

So he plodded across the hall to the bathroom and began the Monday morning ritual of preparing for school.

Thirty minutes later he appeared in the kitchen, where his brother was inhaling a large breakfast while his mother made herself coffee. She gave Adam their traditional morning greeting as he entered.

"Good morning, sunshine."

He answered with a sound that fell somewhere between a grunt and a groan, the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. Pulling a travel mug from the cupboard, Adam filled it with coffee of his own and screwed on the lid before stowing it in the bag slung over his shoulder.

"I'm biking to school today," he informed his mother. "I have a few things I need to take care of at the theatre after school."

"Okay," she said. "I'll phone Mrs. Blansky and let her know Aaron will be over this afternoon." She tilted her head a bit to see around Adam to Aaron. "You get that, kiddo?"

"Mrs. Blansky, this afternoon," Aaron confirmed around a mouthful of toast. "Got it."

"And I won't be home until late, so stay over there until Adam picks you up, okay?" She looked back to Adam, who was digging in the cabinets. "I'm assuming whatever you need to do won't take long?"

He shook his head. "A few hours at the most." Tossing a banana and two granola bars in his bag, he closed the cabinet and headed for the door. "I'll see you tonight."

"Hey, kid of mine," his mother called, stopping him in his tracks. "Get back here."

Begrudgingly, but fighting a smile, Adam returned to place a kiss on her cheek.

"That's better."

"I'm getting a bit old for that," he advised as he ducked through the doorway.

Her call of "_You will never be too old for that_" followed him out the front door.

The Brewery was extremely busy when Pete and Myka arrived, the pre-work crowd clogging the shop as they vied for spots in line to get their morning caffeine fix. Myka was vainly attempting to shove her way through the throng, much to everyone's displeasure, when Pete let out an ear-splitting whistle that stopped everyone in their tracks.

"Hey! Could you please let the lady through?" he asked the silent crowd.

Without a word, the lines parted, creating an aisle through the crowd, who eyed each other warily and quickly stepped back into place (and not without the use of a few elbows and at least one high heel) as soon as Pete and Myka cleared them.

"Nice," Myka threw over her shoulder as she and Pete emerged from the chaos and into the shop proper.

"Thanks," Pete replied. "Just a little skill I picked up helping my friend coach Little League one season. There's nothing that will stop twenty-three stampeding eight-year-olds like a really loud whistle."

"I'll keep that in mind." Myka surveyed the shop. "We need to find the manager, see who was working Saturday night."

"Uhh... manager," Pete said, glancing around, "manager's office... Okay, so I'm not seeing anything that looks remotely manager-like." He eyed the main bar, where harried looking baristas with slightly manic smiles were filling orders hand over fist. "And unless you want to brave that again, I suggest we snag a table and a waitress."

"We don't need a table, Pete."

"Yes, we do, Myka," he advised, placing a hand on the small of her back and leading her over to a small table near the windows. He quickly took a seat, as did Myka, with some exasperation. "First of all," Pete pointed out, "we have yet to have breakfast and, as you know, I cannot be expected to perform at my best on an empty stomach. Secondly, there is no quicker way to get a waitress' attention than by sitting down at one of her - "

The end of his sentence was cut off by their waitress announcing herself.

"Welcome to the Brewery," she said. "My name is Wendy, and I'll be serving you today. Can I get you started with a frappe? Perhaps a macchiato? Our poppyseed muffins just came out of the oven and are still warm!" She grinned widely, looking from one to the other.

Pete and Myka shared a look at the girl's perkiness.

"Ah, Wendy, was it?"

Wendy nodded to Myka in affirmation.

"We'd actually like to speak to your manager," Myka said, pulling out her badge and showing it to the girl. "If you could ask him or her to come over, we'd appreciate it."

"No problem," Wendy replied, still grinning. "I'll go tell Mike that you're here, and he should be over in a jiffy." She turned to leave.

"We'd also appreciate two lattes!" Pete called to her.

Without pausing or turning around, she threw another "No problem" over her shoulder and disappeared into what they assumed was the kitchen. A few minutes later, a man approached their table, carrying two mugs of what Pete hoped was coffee. Setting the mugs down on the table, he extended a hand to each of them in turn and introduced himself.

"I'm Mike Hudson, the manager. Wendy said you wanted to speak with me."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Hudson," Myka replied, showing her badge again. "I'm Agent Bering; this is Agent Lattimer. We're in town investigating a recent death and we were wondering if you could help us. We have reason to believe that the deceased was here at your shop shortly before she died and we were hoping that we could speak with your staff."

"Particularly, anyone who was on duty Saturday night," Pete added.

"Sure," Mr. Hudson said, frowning slightly. "I'll round everyone up. I - could you tell me who it was, who died?"

Myka glanced at Pete, who responded. "A young girl named Rachel Emerson."

Mr. Hudson's face blanched. "Rachel? Oh my god - what happened? Was she murdered?"

"We don't know at this point," Myka replied, eying the manager shrewdly. "Mr. Hudson, how did you know Ms. Emerson?"

"She's a regular," he said. "And she is - was - in the same class as my daughter, Becca." He rubbed a hand over his face, shock clear in his expression. "We'd had her over to our house for sleepovers when she was younger. I - this is terrible." He was silent for a moment, eyes dark. Then he looked up at them, shaking his head slightly. "Sorry. I - I'll check the work roster for Saturday and have anyone who was working come talk to you. It might take a bit of time," he said apologetically, gesturing to the shop, "we're a little busy right now, but it should die down in twenty minutes or so."

"Not a problem," Myka assured him. "We understand that you have a lot going on this morning, and we appreciate your time."

Mr. Hudson nodded and excused himself. He returned a short while later with the time sheet for Saturday, as well as the first of the employees who had worked that night. Over the course of the next hour and a half - and the breakfast platter Hudson brought out for them - Pete and Myka questioned ten of the eleven employees. A few remembered seeing Rachel, but none had spoken with her directly or paid much attention to her. The last waitress to present herself was their own, Wendy.

"Wendy, do you know this girl?" Myka pushed a headshot of Rachel Emerson over to Wendy, who looked at it and nodded.

"Yeah. That's Rachel. She comes in here all the time." She fidgeted in her seat, looking very concerned. "Stephanie said that you guys are investigating Rachel's murder; is that true? Is she dead?"

"Yes, she is," Myka replied gently. "We don't know exactly what happened, which is why we're here. We're trying to figure out how she died."

"Oh my god, oh my god," Wendy breathed.

"Who waited on Rachel Saturday night?" Pete asked.

"I did," Wendy advised. "I was working the patio out front. Rachel liked to come in on the weekends when it was quiet to study. She always sat outside when the weather was nice." Tears were beginning to form in Wendy's eyes. "She was such a nice person. Why would someone do this?"

"Wendy." Myka waited until Wendy had herself under control and met her gaze before continuing. "Did you notice anything strange that night? Anyone who bothered Rachel or sat with her or talked to her?"

"No, I - wait. There was a guy, a young guy - probably in high school? He was filming her with this ancient-looking camera."

"Did Rachel seem upset or nervous about it?"

"No," Wendy sniffled. "She was smiling, seemed liked she knew the guy."

"What did he look like?" Pete asked.

"Brown hair, light eyes, average height - nothing weird about him. He looked like a nice kid, you know?"

Myka flipped through a folder and pulled out another photo, which she placed in front of Wendy.

"Was this the guy?"

"That's him," Wendy confirmed with a nod. "Did he kill Rachel?"

Pete and Myka were looking at each other with worried expressions. "I hope not," Pete said.

-00000-

The whispers followed him through the hallways. Everywhere Adam turned, people were talking excitedly under their breath. He wasn't able to catch what they were saying, but he knew something was going on, something much bigger than the normal gossip mill.

It wasn't until he made it to his first period class, seated in the midst of his peers, that he found out what was going on. The news came at him from every side, in multiple voices.

"Rachel Emerson is dead!"

"I heard she was murdered!"

"Tyler and Joey, too. You think it's a serial killer or something?"

"Owen was with them. Sarah Wilton told Amber Hernandez that Jimmy Olden said that someone burned them alive!"

"Well, _I_ heard that it was some kind of Russian roulette thing, out in the woods."

"That's stupid. Everyone knows they were attacked by a wild animal or something, and Rachel killed herself because she was in love with Tyler."

"You just made that up!"

"Did not!"

"You guys - Rachel didn't kill herself; someone poisoned her coffee."

"Really?"

"Yeah. At the Brewery. There were some cops there this morning asking around about Rachel. She was totally poisoned."

Adam glanced up sharply at Nicole Hendricks, the proponent of the poisoning theory, who gave him a scathing glare in passing before she and the other students continued with the gossip. Adam ignored them. A deep cold, a rolling uneasiness had settled in his stomach, and his heart was racing. There was a niggling suspicion in the back of his mind that had him terrified. There were too many coincidences, too many things that added up perfectly for him to dismiss his fears as happenstance. He thought back over the weekend, of every place he had been and everything he had done.

The realization hit him like a fist in the stomach and before he knew what was happening, he was on his feet and running.

-00000-

Pete and Myka had been halfway to Newport High when Artie called on the Farnsworth. They could tell from the scene behind him that he was at the Jacobs' house. They could tell from his grim face that something was terribly wrong. At Artie's quiet insistence that they get to him as soon as possible, Pete made a sharp U-turn and pushed the rental as fast as it would go.

Whatever they had expected, it wasn't the scene that met them.

There were very few times that Pete had found himself disturbed by what he encountered in the course of his work. Troubled, freaked out, angry - all that and more, but the things he saw rarely shook him to his core.

He spared a moment to be thankful that Artie had left Claudia at the Warehouse for this one.

An ambulance and three police cruisers had already taken up the curb out front of the Jacobs' residence when they arrived, forcing Pete to park across the street. He and Myka entered the house to find the small rooms full of people. Through the doorway, Pete could see two uniforms talking with Mrs. Jacobs in the kitchen, Artie hovering surreptitiously in the background. But it was the scene that met them in the living room that left him stunned. As a paramedic stepped out of the way, Pete was able to see what was occupying everyone's attention.

Aaron Jacobs was sprawled on the living room floor, the carpet beneath him stained a dark red.

His clothes were tattered and nearly every inch of visible skin was marred by bite marks. There was no evidence of a struggle, no upset furniture or broken vases or even blood spatters; it looked at if Aaron had simply lain down and allowed himself to be attacked in the tidiest and least messy way possible.

The team of paramedics worked the scene in absolute silence, clearly trying to hold themselves together. Even the officers, most of whom appeared to have more than a few years of police work under their belts, displayed clear signs of unease. One of the cops - a young man who barely looked old enough to drive, Pete thought - seemed particularly affected by it all. His face was extremely pale, though with a greenish tint, and his eyes kept darting around the room, desperately trying to avoid the gruesome scene before him.

Pete knew how he felt.

He and Myka flashed their badges at the nearest officer as they made their way to the kitchen and a rendezvous with Artie. At the kitchen doorway, they paused to allow the two officers in the kitchen to exit before entering the room themselves. Artie greeted them solemnly.

"Aaron Jacobs was found dead this morning by his mother," he informed them quietly. "His school called her when he didn't show up for class. She came home to find this." He gestured toward the living room.

"Does anyone know what happened?" Myka asked.

"It appears that he was attacked by an animal of some sort, though their dog was safely locked in the backyard and there aren't any signs of an animal being in the house." Artie pulled off his glasses to rub at his eyes for a moment. He looked wearier than Pete or Myka could remember. "And Adam was here; that's why you didn't need to go to the school."

Pete looked at Artie sharply. "Adam _was _here?"

"What happened?" Myka asked softly.

Artie nodded his head toward Mrs. Jacobs, who was sitting at the kitchen table, hands folded in her lap, her face blank. "I think you should ask Mrs. Jacobs," he said. "Gently." He looked toward the living room. "I'm going to see what I can find out elsewhere." He spared the mother another pained glance and ducked into the other room.

Pete steeled himself for the coming conversation and could feel Myka doing the same beside him as she let out a long, slow breath. Together, they approached the table and sat to either side of Mrs. Jacobs.

She didn't look up immediately, and Pete used the time to take in her appearance. The scrubs she had no doubt worn to work that morning were rumpled, and there were bloodstains on her hands and across the front of her shirt. She looked as if she had dealt with some emergency room trauma; it made Pete sick to think that the trauma had been the horrific death of her son.

And the possibility that her other son was somehow responsible.

The thought shook him from his observations and, meeting Myka's eyes briefly, he cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Jacobs?"

When she didn't react, Myka tried, reaching over to place her hand on the woman's shoulder as she called her name.

"Gretchen?"

Gretchen turned toward the sound of Myka's voice, her expression dazed. "Yes?" She managed to focus on Myka's face, recognition seeping into her gaze. "Agent Bering."

"Hi, Gretchen. Agent Lattimer and I need to ask you a few questions. Would that be okay?"

Gretchen nodded absentmindedly and shifted in her seat. "Of course."

"We know about Aaron..." Myka began, trailing off as a spasm of pain flickered across Gretchen's face. She took a slow breath and continued. "But what about Adam? Was Adam here?"

"Yes." Gretchen nodded. "I got home and found - I found..." She shook herself and Pete saw her eyes clear a bit more. She pushed herself through the next sentence, her words tumbling over each other as she fought to get it out. "I had just found Aaron when Adam came barreling into the house. He was pale, like he had just seen a ghost. When he saw -" She swallowed heavily. "When he saw what had happened, the blood drained from his face. I told him to dial 9-1-1, I told him but he just looked at me with huge eyes and then took off like he was being chased by something." She leaned against the table and ran a trembling hand through her hair. "I yelled after him, but he was already gone. I -" She mouthed silently for a second, distraught gaze flickering from Myka to Pete and back again. "What's happening to my family?"

Myka and Pete shared a pained look.

"Gretchen, does Adam have a video camera, an old one?" Pete asked.

She looked at him in confusion. "Yes, he does. He found one up in the attic a few weeks ago. I was surprised that he was able to get it working; the thing looked worse for the wear. He hasn't been without it since then, filming anything and everything he could." She sighed. "Why?"

"Did he make copies of anything he taped?"

Gretchen nodded. "Forrest let him use the theatre's equipment to put everything on disc." She looked between them with a sharper gaze. "Why?"

"Where would those discs be?" Myka asked.

"He kept them in his room -"

"Can we see them?" Pete cut in. Gretchen was staring at him doubtfully, so he leaned forward to place a hand over hers on the tabletop. "Please, Gretchen. This could be very important."

Slowly, her eyes never leaving Pete's face, Gretchen nodded. "Okay."

She led them through the living room, where everyone had stepped back to let Artie have the floor, and down the short hallway to Adam's room. They filed into the small space, which reminded Pete more than a little of his own childhood bedroom. Posters from films and comics were plastered across the walls, the bed was unmade, and laundry was spilling out of a hamper in the corner and onto the floor. Pushed against the near wall was a narrow desk that held a computer that appeared to be a few years old, though well cared for. The desk surface around it was covered with scrap paper, magazines, books and the random clutter of a teenage boy's life. Pete turned one of the books over as Myka sat down and booted up the computer; it was an instruction manual for a media software suite.

The computer hummed and beeped its way to life and they crowded around the screen. Nothing on the desktop stood out, and there weren't any suspect files to be found so, at Gretchen's direction, they began digging around the desk in search of the discs themselves. Myka found a few random music CDs in the mess, but nothing more. However, Pete unearthed a case on a nearby shelf that proved to be exactly what they were looking for.

There were three discs in the case, each labeled in Adam's careful handwriting. With a quick glance at Gretchen, who nodded, Pete handed Myka the disc labeled "Aaron". Myka placed the disc in the computer's drive and they waited with bated breath until it began playing.

Heroic music streamed from the computer's speakers, startling them all. Myka turned down the sound as a colorful title sequence flashed across the screen, frames of two-toned geometric shapes interspersed with text graphics that reminded Pete of the "sound effect" inserts from the old Batman show. A voice that they recognized as Adam's began a voiceover.

"_In a land in need of a hero, there was only one person for the job: Aaron the Amazing. Along with his loyal sidekick, Max the Magnificent, Aaron battles the worst of the worst to protect his city._"

Footage of Aaron standing with his hands on his hips, a smug grin on his face and Max sitting beside him, filled the screen. Gretchen let out a muffled sound of distress.

"Let's fast forward a bit," Pete told Myka quietly.

Myka nodded and skipped ahead. They stopped on Aaron running around the Jacobs' backyard, Max at his heels. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed and his laughter mingled with Max's excited barks. Myka skipped forward again a few more times. Each time they stopped and watched, they found Aaron at play, narrated by Adam. Finally, they came to the end. The screen went dark, and text faded into view.

"_Happy Birthday, Adam!_"

"Oh." Gretchen's voice was barely a whisper as she breathed the word. Pete and Myka turned to her. "It was a present," she explained. "Tomorrow is Aaron's birthday."

There was tense silence in the room for a minute. Then Myka swivelled back to the computer. Turning the volume off entirely, she replaced the disc in its case and pulled out the one labeled "Rachel". Brow furrowed, she popped it into the computer. The familiar scene of the  
>Brewery's patio came into view, background to one Rachel Emerson.<p>

"Pete," Myka called.

He turned back to the desk and joined Myka at the computer. The image on the screen didn't waver in focus from Rachel. She was poised above notebooks and textbooks, as if she was studying, but a tell-tale flickering of her eyes told them that she was completely aware of the camera's focus. The tiny curving of her lips told them that she was amused by it. Somehow, Adam had made the film look like a moving version of an daguerreotype photograph. The color had been toned to sepia, and the edges had been darkened to create a frame around the image.

As they watched, Rachel picked up the coffee mug at her elbow and took a drink. Myka looked up at Pete.

"It can't be," he said.

Myka stopped the disc and replaced it with the last one in the case, this one labeled "Evidence". From the footage that appeared, they could tell that Adam had been hidden either behind or inside a bush when he shot it. The view was framed by limbs and leaves, but through an opening in the foliage, a small campsite could be seen. Three tents surrounded a fire, at which three boys sat. Owen, Tyler, and Joey passed around cans of beer while they cooked hot dogs over the fire and shared conversation that the camera couldn't catch. After a couple of minutes, the footage abruptly stopped. Myka stood and looked levelly at Pete.

"No, Myka."

"It makes sense, Pete," she countered. "Adam and that camera are the common denominators in everything. He was at the campsite and filmed Tyler, Owen and Joey around the campfire - they were burned alive. He filmed Rachel drinking coffee, and she turns up poisoned without any sign of having being poisoned. And then with Aaron -" Myka placed a hand on Pete's arm and lowered her voice even further, "- Pete, almost every minute of that footage shows Aaron with _Max_."

Pete shook his head. "Why would Aaron attack them, Myka? Maybe the three guys that bullied him mercilessly, but the girl he had a crush on? His little brother? That _doesn't_ make sense."

"I don't think he did it on purpose," Myka said. "I don't think he had any idea what that camera could do... until now." She bit her lower lip and Pete could tell that a light bulb had just gone off for her.

"What is it, Myka?"

Ignoring him for the moment, she sat beside Gretchen on the bed.

"Gretchen, we think that Adam might be in trouble. Can you think of anyone he might be mad at, someone he would be angry enough with to actually hurt?"

"No," Gretchen replied, shaking her head. "Adam's a sweet kid. He wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Are you sure there isn't anyone? There's no one from school or work -"

Realization dawned on Gretchen's face. "Wade."

"Wade Mitchell?" Myka asked.

"Yes. Adam's always blamed Wade for what happened to his dad." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Yesterday I would have told you that Adam could never hurt anyone; now I'm not so sure." She looked up at Myka. "If Adam planned to hurt someone, it would be Wade."

"We have to find out where Wade Mitchell lives," Pete said.

"I have his address," Gretchen advised. "It's in my room."

The followed her across the hall, where she moved to the dresser and dug a card out from under the clothes in one drawer. She handed it to Pete.

"That's Wade's address," she told him, pointing to the return address on the envelope. "It's a card he sent shortly after Connor's funeral. It was one of the few I kept; there was something very kind about what he wrote, I -" She left out a huff of laughter. "I could tell he was truly sorry about what happened."

Pete gestured to the card in his hand. "We have to get to Wade's."

Gretchen nodded and Pete and Myka started to leave. They turned at the doorway at the sound of her voice.

"Agents - bring him back to me."

"We're going to find him," Pete told her. "I promise."

Gretchen nodded again and Pete followed Myka into the hallway. They met Artie in the living room and quickly filled him in on what they had discovered. He sent them off to Wade's residence, saying he would catch up with them there. A minute later, they were in the car, speeding toward the other side of town.

-00000-

Pete squealed to a stop outside the Red Oak Condominium complex and jumped out of the car, Myka at his heels. As they raced the length of the parking lot toward the building, they spotted a figure near the back entrance and immediately shifted their direction to intercept it. Once they were close enough, they could make it out to be Adam, who was fiddling with his camera. A few yards away, they slowed to a walk and Myka called out to him.

"Adam!"

He looked up sharply, and they could see that his eyes were red-rimmed, though dry. He looked scared and guilty and determined, and they saw him go tense as he recognized them. Pete and Myka continued to approach him cautiously, hands raised in front of them.

"Adam, we know what happened and we know you didn't mean it to." Myka spoke clearly and in as soothing a manner as she could, but she could see the twitch in Adam's jaw.

"We can help you," Pete told him. "You don't want to do this."

Adam's gaze kept wandering from the camera in his hands to their faces and back again. "I didn't mean it," he said quietly.

"We know," Myka said. "This isn't your fault; none of this is."

Pete caught Adam's gaze. "But if you go up there, if you do what you're planning to do, it _will _be." Adam dropped his eyes and frowned.

"Mr. Mitchell doesn't deserve this, Adam."

Right away, they knew that had been the wrong thing to say. Adam's head jerked up, his expression a fierce combination of despair and fury. Pete and Myka stopped in their tracks as he began yelling.

"Yes he does!" Adam shouted. "He killed my dad! He deserves to die!"

"Adam -"

Before they could react, Adam raised the camera and started filming them. Pete and Myka immediately drew their weapons in response, leveling them at the boy.

"Adam, put the camera down," Myka ordered.

"Don't be the bad guy," Pete told him. "Don't do this."

Adam ignored them and continued shooting. From the corner of his eye, Pete saw Myka shudder slightly, her grip tightening on the weapon in her hand. He could feel his own muscles tensing, and the irresistible urge to turn toward her came over him, as if an invisible force was trying to pull him around. He fought against it, but it seemed to grow exponentially in strength to the point that he was trembling from the exertion.

"Pete," Myka called, her voice strained. "Do you feel... weird?"

"Yeah," he pushed out through gritted teeth. "You could say that."

He was losing the battle, slowly beginning to pivot on the spot to face Myka. As he turned, he could see that the camera was having the same effect on her. Wide-eyed, gun still raised, she was turning to face him. The strain was clear on her face, and he knew that she was trying just as hard as he was to move, to step away, to lower her gun, to do anything. Pete's heart was thundering in his chest and he could feel his finger tightening on the trigger, despite all his efforts to stop it.

Myka called out to Adam again. "Adam, stop. You don't want to do this; you don't want to hurt anyone."

"No one blames you for anything that's happened," Pete told him. "You haven't done anything wrong yet. Don't start now."

Adam looked in their direction with tormented eyes. "It _is _my fault," he said quietly. His expression hardened. "And this time I'm going to mean it."

Lowering the camera, he turned away, heading toward the door into the complex. Pete and Myka, too focused now on maintaining control to even call out to him, struggled with everything they had against the increasing hold of the camera. Both were trembling from the effort, guns bouncing slightly in their grips as they fought to pull away. They stared at each other in horror across the small space separating them.

A few yards away, Adam was nearing the complex's entrance. He was almost at the door when a bolt of light appeared from out of nowhere, striking him squarely in the back. Artie, Tesla in hand, watched as the boy fell to the ground, unconscious. The impact knocked the camera from Adam's fingers and it hit the asphalt with enough force to pop open the casing, film spilling out like ribbons.

At that moment, the sound of twin gunshots echoed off the building.


	4. Chapter 4

**-TUESDAY-**

The B&B was quiet when Artie pushed open the front door. There was an uneasy silence in the air, a feeling of emptiness that was utterly alien to Leena's. He allowed himself a moment to feel the exhaustion that had settled in his bones, then the sound of hurried steps from the back of the house drew his attention.

Claudia was walking swiftly toward him, rubbing her palms on her jeans. There was an edge of panic in her worried expression, and she searched his face intently as she approached.

"Artie -"

Whatever she had planned to say was lost as movement over Artie's shoulder caught her eye. She paused mid-stride as Myka and Pete slowly climbed the porch steps and walked inside. They were wearing matching slings on their left arms and looked decidedly worse for the wear, and Claudia's face lit up at the sight of them standing beside Artie. She darted forward as if to hug them, but - eying their damaged shoulders - made a last minute adjustment and grabbed Artie instead.

"I'm so glad you guys are home."

"Us, too, kiddo," Artie said, giving her a few pats on the back.

She released him and immediately began to shoo Myka and Pete toward the sitting room, where she commanded that they sit and relax. They gingerly lowered themselves onto one of the sofas and, at Claudia's insistence, put their feet up on the coffee table.

"Leena's baking cookies and a huge dinner because, you know, that's what she does," Claudia said, bustling around them, fluffing pillows and bringing them blankets, "and I brought a stack of books in from the library so you'll have something to do other than stare at the walls down here. And there's a pile of new movies up in Pete's room, so when you guys are up to it, when can move you up there for a movie marathon, and -"

"_Claudia_," Myka said with a laugh. "We aren't invalids, you don't have to wait on us or anything."

"We're okay," Pete said gently.

"I know." To their surprise, she looked for all the world like she was about to cry. Then she shook herself and nodded to their injuries. "Matching shoulder wounds, huh? Very hardcore." She smiled crookedly. "What's next, tattoos?"

Myka glanced at Pete and raised an eyebrow. "Who says we don't already have those?"

Claudia raised her hands. "Okay. On that note, I'm going to go check on those cookies." She walked past them into the hall, and they could hear her calling for Leena as she headed toward the kitchen.

Artie looked after her with fondness. "She was worried sick about you," he advised the other two. "Called me every ten minutes while we were at the hospital, threatened to get on a plane to come out there. I think the only thing that stopped her is the fact that we got on one headed back before she could got on one headed out."

"It's not like there was anything she could have done," Myka said.

"No, there really wasn't." He eyed them closely. "You two got very lucky."

"I was wondering about that," Pete said. "How come we didn't, you know... _die_? Everybody else's final performance was pretty darn final."

"And why did the camera work so much more quickly on us?" Myka added. "The other victims took hours, even days to feel the effects."

Artie pushed Myka's feet over a little and sat on the coffee table. "It's like Adam said: he _meant it_ with the two of you. With the others, he was just filming. With you, he specifically wanted to stop you at least, kill you at most. I think his intent is what amplified the effect of the camera so that it worked a lot faster on you."

"And the reason we aren't dead?"

"Sunlight."

"Sunlight?" Pete asked dubiously.

"The film," Myka said.

Artie nodded. "When Adam dropped the camera, it popped open, exposing the film to direct sunlight. The light burned the images on the film and that, combined with the fight you two put up, allowed you to pull your aim far enough away from vital areas to -"

"Not die," Pete supplied.

"In a manner of speaking."

"What caused all this?" Myka asked. "I mean, we know the camera was the artifact, but how did it become one?"

"And how did Adam get ahold of it?"

"It was Hitchcock's," Artie said. Pete and Myka stared at him in disbelief.

"As in..."

"Alfred Hitchcock, yes. It was one of the cameras he used in his filmmaking. After his death, it was purchased at auction by a private buyer." Artie paused to clean his glasses with his shirt before continuing. "It disappeared for years after that, until it surfaced at a yard sale about twenty years ago, where it was purchased by Connor Jacobs."

"Adam's dad."

Artie nodded. "Apparently Mr. Jacobs was unable to get the camera operational again, so it eventually found itself tucked away in the attic, which is where Adam found it a couple of weeks ago."

A look of understanding dawned on Pete's face and he slapped his thigh with his good hand. "The poisoning." He turned to Myka. "Remember when I said that Rachel's poisoning-by-coffee sounded like a movie? That's because it _was_ a movie - a Hitchcock movie." Myka and Artie were looking at him blankly. "_Notorious_? Cary Grant? Ingrid Bergman?" He threw up his hand at their continued disinterest. "Who are you people?"

"What did you do with the camera?" Myka asked Artie.

"It's been neutralized, but I'm going to take it to the Warehouse," he said, patting the bag at his feet, "for a second round before it's put into storage."

"Snagged, bagged, and tagged," Pete said.

"What about Adam?" Myka asked.

"He's been sent to a facility for troubled youth just outside Seattle." Artie sighed. "I know the manager there; he's a good man. He'll be able to give Adam the help he needs to get back on his feet."

"And Gretchen?"

Artie shook his head. "They have joint programs at the facility for the parents, but I couldn't tell if she was willing to do it or not. I guess time will tell." He pushed himself to his feet. "Well, I'm going to check on the Warehouse, see what Claudia's done to it while we were gone. You two take it easy. And no more shooting each other," he ordered, half-jokingly.

"Yessir," Pete replied.

Artie gave them one last look and hurried off. They heard the front door close behind him and suddenly the room was quiet. Myka heaved a sigh and turned to find Pete watching her. They shared a long look. Careful of her arm, she scooted down in her seat to lean her head against Pete's shoulder.

"Let's not ever do that again, deal?"

She nodded. "Deal."


End file.
